Chapter 7: Certainty

May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel

Worlds Apart

To many, it comes as a surprise that the heir to the throne of England would take any interest in a girl born to a small town outside San Francisco, California. The likelihood the two would even meet was slim to none from the outset. From the beginning, Prince Draco and Hermione Granger lived vastly different lives, growing up amid completely different circumstances. Aside from both being only children, in fact, the two have very little in common.

Unlike the birth of Prince Draco, there was not a crowd of people waiting outside the hospital on the nineteenth of September in 1989, when the woman who would become the future Queen of England was born to David and Helen Granger. While the world witnessed the childhood belonging to the Prince—who was frequently and quite famously pictured with his mother, Princess Narcissa, in several iconic shots—Hermione grew up in relative normality, attending local Catholic schools and working summer jobs as a part-time receptionist for her parents' dental practice. Where Draco excelled in sports and took great interest in athletics, Hermione was quite bookish, participating in theatre, school government, and various honour societies, and where Draco was usually the topic of news, Hermione was behind the scenes of her school newspapers. She even earned a spot on the staff of The Stanford Daily her second year of university, which she retained until the point of her attendance at Hogwarts.

So far, so good. Impressive work sticking to the facts, Rita.

At the heart of Draco and Hermione's differences, though, wasn't the distinction in class or economic status, but rather the contrast between respective understandings of what each would one day become. Where Draco had known from birth he would one day rise to lead a country, Hermione was far less certain about what her future would hold. She changed her course of study twice during her time at Stanford—first from undecided to Journalism, and then from there to English Literature with an emphasis in pre-law studies—only to ultimately accept a rather unremarkable job working for a small non-profit arts initiative in London. In fact, it could conceivably be said that outside her obvious devotion to her future husband, Hermione was never quite certain of anything at all.

Now that, Rita Skeeter, is just plain unfair.

November 27, 2010
Hogwarts University

"Tell me about you," Draco murmured in her ear, pulling her closer to him in bed.

"What about me?" Hermione prompted sleepily, curling into the circle of his arms. "You already know all the important things. My plots to destroy the monarchy," she mused, idly drawing circles on his chest. "My adoration for mystical trollop Margery Kempe, my impressive hair care regimen—"

"Tell me about your family," Draco suggested, glancing down at her. "You don't talk about them much. Or your friends at home, really."

"Ah." Hermione cleared her throat, shifting slightly upright. "Well, my parents are great. We're very close. My mom and I Skype every few days, actually." She paused before adding, "She asks me a lot of questions about you."

"Understandable," Draco determined with a solemn nod. "I do have remarkable teeth."

Hermione rolled her eyes, giving him an admonishing nudge. "Not quite that."

"What? But I have such an indisputably excellent set of them," Draco informed her. "Ask anyone. Well, except Rita Skeeter, that is," he amended with a grimace. "I'm fairly certain she can see straight through to the cavity I got when I was eight years old."

Hermione chuckled. "If anyone can, it's probably her."

"I'd be willing to bet she knows more about my dental records than my father," Draco agreed, "but that's hardly relevant at the moment. What about your father?"

"Well, he's no Prince of Darkness, that's for sure," Hermione said, laughing a little at the thought of her dad's argyle sweaters in comparison to Prince Lucius' bespoke suits. "He's… well, he goes through these periods of being obsessed with some activity or another," she determined, figuring that said as much about David Granger as she could manage in one sentence. "He learns everything about it, goes on a hunt for all the best gear, befriends absolutely everyone who does it. Gets invited to all these events—he's so social." She smiled slightly at the thought. "Right now he's into trail running, I think. He has a group he meets up with every Saturday morning and they run the trails on Mount Tam. According to my mom, anyway."

"You and your dad don't talk much?" Draco asked, tilting his head to look at her.

"Well, we chat," Hermione began tentatively, "but it's… I just find it easier to talk to my mom. My dad's very enthusiastic, you know? He's a lot. I love him," she added quickly. "He's absolutely amazing and he's always there for me, but he's just… he and I are very different."

"Ah," Draco noted, chuckling. "Yes, I can relate."

He brushed his thumb over his shoulder, pondering something quietly as she dozed off again, comfortably wrapped up in him (and his notably luxurious thread count).

"And your friends?" Draco asked after a moment, reminding her she hadn't answered the question she'd very much hoped not to answer, and she hid a grimace in his chest.

"I had a really close friend in high school," Hermione said, "but we've drifted apart since going to different colleges. And at Stanford… I don't know. I have a few friends in my classes, but nothing like—" She hesitated, not wanting to confess she really didn't have anything of note to contribute. "I don't have a Theo," she admitted eventually. "Or a Blaise. And certainly not a Harry."

She'd said it with as light a tone she could manage, but was oddly grateful when Draco didn't laugh. In truth, she was more envious of his friendships than she was of his money or his crown, which she hoped he wouldn't think was too ridiculous. Or worse, as she feared he might find it—pathetic.

"You have a Daphne, though," Draco murmured, resting his chin atop her head. "That's pretty close, isn't it? And a Pansy," he added as an afterthought, "though that's a little harder to categorize, to say the least."

"Well, of course," Hermione permitted, half-smiling. "I just meant I don't have any lifelong friends like you do. I think I was always just focused on school. Or maybe I have terrible social skills," she said with what she hoped was a laugh, though it stuck slightly in her throat, swelling up until she was forced to swallow something of an emotional knot. "I've always been most comfortable on my own, I think."

Draco nodded slowly, tightening his arms around her.

"I can understand that," he said. "I actually think my best friends are who they are because they're the only people in the world who give me the same feeling I get when I'm alone. As opposed to being in a crowd, I mean." He paused. "I get to be me because they're them, if that makes sense? Which it probably doesn't."

She pulled away to look up at him. "Is that," she began, and faltered, lightly chewing her lip. "Is that how I make you feel?"

His grey gaze fell on hers, something hopeful pulling at the corners of his lips.

"No," he said.

She blinked. "Oh," she managed, pulling away, and he laughed, slipping his hand around the back of her head and battling her wild hair to pull her closer, brushing his lips against hers.

"You make me feel like a better me," he told her softly, stroking the side of her cheek. "When I'm with you, I'm…" A swallow. A trade of penitent breaths. "I'm a version of me that gets to have fun, to be young, to be happy. To think about something other than whatever monotonous task I have to get through next."

He kissed her again, lifting her chin to hold her still; a kiss with longevity, like a quiet meditation; a slow pulse of pressure. "You're a relief, Hermione. You're like a deep breath after I've been drowning, as positively stupid as that sounds."

She leaned her forehead against his, nodding.

"I know what you mean," she said.

Gradually he leaned back against the pillows, pulling her with him.

"I know you do," he said. "It's really very unhelpful, you know."

She didn't ask why, and he didn't explain. Neither of them had discussed the episode of 'stay' since it had happened, and she knew his silence on the matter was a personal favor to her. She'd given no indication of wanting to discuss it, and neither did she particularly wish to now.

Instead, she rested her head against his shoulder, Draco's lips lightly brushing her forehead before they both drifted off to sleep.

"So what's it like going to school in the snow?" Helen asked over Skype a few days later, as Hermione was unsuccessfully trying to show her mother pictures of the pristinely-blanketed campus from the screen of her phone (email would have been better, of course, but Helen was not particularly patient—a rare similarity between mother and daughter).

"Not too different," Hermione said with a laugh. "All my classes are inside the castle, so… it's just, you know. Cold?"

"Oh, well, that's good. And how's Daphne?"

"She's great, actually. She's been really enjoying her drawing class, and—" Hermione broke off, hearing a knock at the door. "Oh, hold on, Mom—"

"Sure, honey. I'll just be here daydreaming about your romantic Scottish winter."

Hermione got to her feet, rolling her eyes. "It's hardly a romantic winter, Mom, but fine." She pulled the door open, surprised to find Draco standing in the frame. "Oh, hey," she said to him, blinking, "I thought you said you had to do a phone call with your handlers this afternoon?"

"I did, but—is that the infamous Dr Granger behind you?" Draco asked, peeking over her shoulder and noticing Helen's image from her laptop.

"Oh my god, Hermione, is that him? He is cute—"

Hermione closed her eyes, briefly mortified, but it was too late to stop the nightmare from happening. Draco had already nudged her aside, making his way to the computer.

"Ah, Dr Granger, Draco Wales. It's an absolute pleasure. My goodness, are you sure you're quite old enough to be a mum?"

"A mum, Hermione! Where did you find this one?"

"Oh, just wandering around with the other peasants," Hermione said, grudgingly taking a seat beside him as he pulled her laptop into his lap. "Mom, Draco," she said, referencing a slyly grinning Draco, "and Draco, Mom."

"Your Royal Highness," Helen said gravely, bowing to the webcam. "It's an honor."

"The honor is all mine, Dr Granger. You've got quite a daughter, you know," he told her, wearing his best (and most princely) grin. "You've done the entire country quite a service in graciously lending her to our little kingdom."

"I have, haven't I?" Helen said with a laugh. "But enough about me, naturally. Tell me about you, Your Highness. Your likes, your dislikes, your mortal enemies—"

"Mom," Hermione said, mortified, but Draco was clearly enjoying himself.

"My enemies are unfortunately a state secret, unless you count my second nanny," he said. "I don't, naturally, because she's already been sent to the Tower for her lack of applause over my childhood drawings. And please, call me Draco—"

"Well then you'll have to call me Helen, Draco, because Dr Granger is going to make me feel like I should be dispensing flossing tips. Which, in my professional opinion, you don't particularly look like you need, though I suppose I can't tell from here. Open wide, please?"

"Ahhh," Draco permitted obediently as Hermione buried her flushed face in one hand, shaking her head.

"Excellent. Brush after every meal, Your Highness?"

"And floss twice daily, in fact."

"Well, aren't you just the dream—"

"Okay," Hermione said, easing the laptop away from Draco. "I think that's enough, don't you?"

"What? Hardly," Draco said, leaning against her shoulder to remain firmly in the frame. "Hermione told me I missed quite a feast at Thanksgiving," he informed her mother, apparently wishing to draw the conversation out (presumably to exasperate Hermione further, as she could only assume).

"You did," Helen half-scolded him. "I invited you. Didn't she tell you?"

Draco flashed Hermione an undignified glance, utterly betrayed. "You know something, Helen? She didn't—"

"Of course I didn't," Hermione sighed, "because the Prince of England can't just come to our family Thanksgiving, Mom, as I mentioned literally three dozen times—"

"Well, it's still a big deal to be invited," Helen said sternly. "Not just anyone gets to come to a Granger Thanksgiving, Draco."

"And I recognize it for the singular honor that it is," Draco assured her. "A pity I was given no choice but to rudely decline. I'd have at least sent a note—"

"Well, then at least one of you had the benefit of good breeding. I don't know where I went wrong, quite frankly—"

"Alright, alright," Hermione said, shaking her head. "That's enough from you two."

"Yes, fair, I interrupted your chat," Draco agreed, leaning closer to the screen. "Still, I'm glad I had the excellent fortune of meeting you, Helen. I'd shake your hand, but—"

"High five?" Helen asked, holding her palm to the camera, and in response, Draco solemnly raised his, the two of them engaging in a completely ridiculous internet gesture. "Wonderful to meet you, Draco. Take good care of my girl, would you? Make good choices. Also, never underestimate the importance of foreplay."

"MOTHER," Hermione groaned, but Draco was already laughing.

"Only the best choices, Helen, believe me. See you later," he added to Hermione, lightly kissing her cheek, and then he rose to his feet and sauntered to the door, winking at her before passing through it and pulling it shut behind him.

Hermione, meanwhile, turned to her mother with a slow, disapproving shake of her head.

"You're terrible," she informed Helen, who was clearly smiling brilliantly, even with the slightly lagging connection. "You do realize you just met a prince, right?"

"Oh, he's not a prince, he's the boy dating my daughter. Can't go too easy on him."

"Could go easier on me," Hermione mumbled, and Helen laughed.

"Are you sure you haven't given more thought to staying?" she asked, and immediately, Hermione's stomach twisted. "I mean, much as we'd love to have you back, sweetheart, you just seem like you're having so much fun there—"

"I can't stay, Mom," Hermione said flatly. "You know I can't. I can't just… derail my future for a boy, even if he is a prince. If I stay for the year, then what?" she prompted, grimacing. "Do I have to plan on getting a job in England, then? What kind of work would I do? And what if Draco and I just ended up breaking up, or—"

"Oh, my daughter the planner," Helen lamented, sighing fondly. "Okay, sweetie, you don't have to go through the whole spiel again. I'm just saying, if it's something you want, then—"

"I just—" I don't know what I want. "I can't be the girl who stays because of a boy. Especially not this boy," she said with a frown, "seeing as there's absolutely no future with him. In fact, remind me to have you meet Pansy," Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "She'll clear all this up for you."

"Must everything be about the future?" Helen asked, groaning. "You're a smart girl, Hermione. You could have a job no problem whether you graduated from Stanford or Hogwarts—"

"In this economy, Mom? Don't be ridiculous. If I'm going to get into a top twenty law school, I should be doing internships back home, not going to galas and Halloqueen parties with English aristocrats—"

Behind her, Hermione heard the lock turn, a rosy-cheeked Daphne entering the room and lighting up the moment she saw Hermione's laptop screen.

"Oh, is that Helen?" Daphne asked at once, throwing her bag down and nudging Hermione aside, gradually unwinding her scarf from around her neck. "Hi, hi, just came in—"

"Daphne, sweetheart, look at you! How are the drawing classes?"

"Oh, thanks for asking, they're going rather well. The professor asked to see my sketches and he thinks I have a real knack for it, actually—"

"Well of course you do, anyone with eyes could see that—"

For a moment, Hermione tuned them out, letting Daphne chat to her mother about her portfolio as she considered what Helen had said. On the one hand, it really didn't seem like such a terrible thing to take the year at Hogwarts, but if she took the entire year, how could she then return for her final year at Stanford? It seemed like one decision to stay would only snowball to another, and then another, and then another—

Briefly, Draco's face came to mind. Admittedly, it hurt Hermione to think of leaving him. They hadn't discussed what would happen when she left, but she had to assume anything they attempted to carry out long-distance would gradually fizzle out, as with all long-distance relationships. Eventually they'd talk less and less until they didn't talk at all, so wouldn't it be better to just have a couple of perfect months and leave them in the past? Clean break, Hermione thought to herself again.

Clean break. A good idea. A very excellent theory.

If only it didn't break her heart just to think about, that is.

"—mione, hello, are you listening?"

"Hm?" Hermione asked, jolted back to the conversation. "Sorry, Mom, what were you saying?"

"Someone's distracted," Daphne noted primly, giving Hermione a teasing sidelong grin. "Is it, perhaps, because a certain someone's mum just met a certain dashing Prince?"

"Both of you need to stop this immediately," Hermione grumbled as Daphne and Helen laughed, clearly already conspirators. "It's not like… he's not my boyfriend, okay?" she said, feeling her cheeks flush. "Can't you just—I don't know. Chill, please?"

"Well, for someone who isn't your boyfriend, he did seem perfectly happy to have a chat with your mother," Helen pointed out.

"And you've been seeing quite a lot of each other," chimed Daphne, the traitor. "I feel like I barely see you anymore. Not that I'm complaining, of course," she added hastily, "but it does seem like things are going rather swimmingly, don't you think?"

They were going swimmingly.

Which was precisely the problem.

"Draco and I both know we can't date," Hermione said firmly, "so this conversation is over. Besides, it's too late!" she erupted, grasping for something of a relevant point. "Tracey's already coming back next term, so I wouldn't have anywhere to live."

"Well, we wouldn't have to stay in the dorms," Daphne said, as Helen exuberantly nodded her agreement. "We could get a flat in Hogsmeade. Pansy hates living here," she added, brightening. "She tells me at least fourteen times a day, and then you and Draco can—"

"No more me and Draco stuff, okay?" Hermione cut in sharply. "Please. Just… don't."

There was a pause as Daphne and Helen both registered the change in Hermione's voice, glancing sheepishly at each other.

"Right, well… how's the snow?" Helen asked Daphne, clearing her throat.

"Positively dreadful," Daphne sighed, and after another moment she'd leaned her head against Hermione's shoulder, all three of them commencing an aptly meaningless discussion about the weather before Helen was called away for a patient.

"I can't believe this is our last class with Slughorn," Theo said, falling into his usual seat on Hermione's right. "What am I going to do without him, honestly? How am I going to know where he gets his fine scotches if he doesn't personally tell me three times a week?"

"It's a tragedy I hardly dare consider," Hermione agreed, shaking her head. "How are we going to know how close he is with his very close pupil the Prince if he doesn't monologue about it for our benefit?"

"Well," came a voice at the end of the aisle. "I suppose I'll just have to tell you myself, won't I?"

There was a quiet pulse of shock as Draco made his way to the vacant seat on Hermione's left, carefully lowering himself into it and removing his notebook from his bag. Unlike Hermione and Theo, who took notes on their laptops, Draco typically hand-wrote his notes so as to avoid having his screen photographed from elsewhere in the room. This, outrageously, was the first thought that occurred to Hermione as she watched him: a slow cataloguing of everything she knew about Draco's in-class behavior from the entirety of the term. For one thing, he never arrived to class early. He typically got there just as it started to avoid calling undue attention to his arrival, and furthermore, he sat in various spots around the classroom, sitting somewhere slightly different each time. He never sat with Hermione or Theo. He also never spoke to anyone, opting instead to be as forgettable as possible, and usually slipped out the moment class ended.

Now, though, as he pulled out his notepad, he glanced at her, catching her expression of total bemusement and smiling slightly.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

She was pretty sure she was staring at him. In her defense, she did manage to close her mouth rather quickly, although Theo nudging her sharply in the ribs may have been at least partially responsible for that limited success.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, and Draco chuckled.

"Sitting next to you," he replied. "Is that a problem?"

She shook her head dumbly, leaning back in her seat, and Theo leaned towards her from her other side.

"Before you inevitably ask, the answer is no," Theo said in a low voice. "He doesn't do this often."

Hermione glanced at him, alarmed, and Theo shrugged.

"He's trying," he murmured, but by the time Hermione opened her mouth to reply, Slughorn had already started speaking.

"Yes, right, hello students, wonderful to be here again, let's see… ah, Prince Draco, are you here?" A pause, and then a swivel of heads in their direction, brows furrowing around the room. Draco, meanwhile, lifted his pen in greeting, nodding his slightly-amused acknowledgement. "Oh, excellent!" Slughorn declared. "Well, we'll have to hear from you today, I'm sure, unless you have some other royal business to attend to, which I am of course happy to assist with, should you require anything at all—"

"No, Professor," Draco assured him, sparing his most aggressively polite smile. "I wouldn't dream of interrupting your lecture, sir."

"Well, of course, quite right, an excellent student you are, Your Highness. Now, if we could all turn our attention to where we left off last class: the literary confession," Slughorn said, turning his attention to the captive audience of the lecture hall. "By now we've traversed the significant historical landmarks of confessionary writings, haven't we? So, let's discuss. What, in your view, is the significance of the confession in literature? Your Highness," he added loftily, "would you start us off?"

Draco hesitated for a moment, glancing briefly at Hermione before turning to Slughorn.

"The confession is a testament to the most intimate parts of humanity," Draco said, leaning slightly forward in his seat. "It's a distinctly human impulse to confess. The confession of sins, for example, as with Augustine, or with a calling, as with Margery Kempe, are compulsions towards an inner truth which then become sympathetic in literature. An author, in penning a confession, reveals him or herself to be more… human," he suggested. "More real, perhaps, in his need for honesty—and more importantly, in what those truths reveal about his authentic self."

"Spot on, Your Highness!" Slughorn crowed jubilantly, but by then, Hermione was barely listening. She was watching Draco's pen travel over his blank page, writing a single sentence before setting his pen down, not looking at her.

She caught the shape of the words and blinked, disbelieving.

Confession: it's killing me to let you go.

"Miss, ahhhh… Miss Granger," Slughorn called, as Theo (in a subtle move Hermione would have to make a note to thank him for later) nudged her back to consciousness. "And what would you say to the Prince's thoughtfully crafted analysis?"

"I, um." She paused, her own thoughts positively racing in an extremely unhelpful way. "Well, I agree," she began slowly, "but also, I'd add that there is some level of danger in confession. The inherent risk of exposure, I mean," she clarified, as Slughorn tilted his head, considering her argument. "The author makes herself vulnerable, which is why the confessionary work is, by default, an act of self-sacrifice. Possibly even self-destruction," she added hurriedly.

"Or," Draco said, as again, the heads in the room swiveled to him, "the same could be called an act of courage, then, couldn't it? Depending on perspective."

"Well, right," Hermione permitted, feeling her face heat, "of course, but is it better to sacrifice for truth, or to preserve oneself to avoid the risk of damage? Is the literary argument, I mean," she clarified hastily. "That's, um. That's the question in literature. Especially because a confession carries risk," she added firmly, glancing at Draco. "Knowing that vulnerability has an inherent danger by leaving the truth exposed, then what's the value of the literary confession if the result would only be damaging, either to the confessor or to the subject of the confession?"

"The confession doesn't become valuable to meet an end," Draco argued, turning to face her. "It's valuable because it's a confession. Because the truth is always valuable, whether it causes damage or not."

"What about certainty, then?" Hermione countered. "The confessor would have to know the truth in order to confess it, wouldn't she?"

"Yes, but everyone has a truth," Draco said. "The difficulty isn't in the certainty, but in the act of revelation. That's the universality of the genre at question, isn't it? The confession as a reflection of the true self? Because the question isn't whether the confessor knows her truth or not," he told her firmly, the entirety of his attention fixed on her face. "The question is what moves her to confess."

"Right again, Your Highness!" trumpeted Slughorn, interrupting the conversation Hermione and Draco were most definitely having about literature and not at all about their personal relationship. "Brilliant analysis, excellent work. And if, as the Prince argues, the confession is inherently valuable, is the significance of the narrative schema equally valuable across all historical context?"

Gradually, the class turned their attention back to Slughorn, but Draco and Hermione were still looking at each other, his pen poised beside his confession.

It's killing me to let you go.

She turned back to her computer screen, tapping blankly at her keys, and finally sighed in resignation, conceding to type one sentence into the open document for her notes and angling the screen towards Draco.

I'm not sure about anything, she wrote, except how I feel about you.

She caught the motion of him smiling and deleted it quickly, amending, but that doesn't mean I'm staying. I'm not actually saying anything—it doesn't count.

Draco shook his head. "Still a confession," he said under his breath. "Counts for something."

"Shut up," she whispered, and for a fleeting moment, Draco's smile spread wide across his face. Then, just as quickly, it had been cleverly smoothed out by the palm of his hand as he bent his head, diligently returning to his notes.

In retrospect, exams at the end of the term flew by. While they were in the trenches, though, it certainly hadn't felt that way. For nearly a week, Hermione hardly thought of anything but literature tropes and obscure medieval battles, falling into bed with Draco (discreetly, of course, and often with all their clothes on, one or the other still muttering to themselves about narrative significance) and rising before the sun the next morning to stumble back to her own dorm room, reopening her textbook as Daphne would blearily look up, squinting from where she was hunched over her desk.

"Is it morning?" she would mumble, the words mostly incoherent through a wide, unladylike yawn.

"It's that or death," Hermione would grunt in reply, and then someone would bang on their door.

"Hello, children," Theo would say once Hermione opened it, offering them both cups of coffee. Daphne's would be iced with plenty of sugar (she wasn't typically a coffee drinker unless it was partially dessert) and Hermione's would be black and paired with a handful of almonds (she was very concerned about her protein consumption), the two of them stumbling like zombies to reach for them from the doorway.

"Thanks," they'd mutter in unison, and the process would repeat each day, Hermione and Daphne eventually making their way down for something resembling actual meals to find Blaise and Pansy looking perfectly rested, both arching their elegant brows at makeup-less Daphne and sweatpants-clad Hermione with apparent puzzlement.

"Are you two not studying?" Hermione had asked them once, which was apparently a stupid question, given Pansy's expression in response.

"Of course we're studying," Pansy said. "We're just also bathing."

"Sick burn," Blaise said, toasting her with an imaginary glass. "Twenty points."

"Twenty seems excessive," Theo commented, falling into the seat at the end of the table.

"Well, excess or death, as they say," Blaise cheerily replied.

"Nobody says that," Hermione informed him.

"They do now," Blaise corrected, disappearing behind a copy of The Economist.

"What about you?" Daphne demanded from Theo. "You look perfectly fine."

"Oh, thank you, Greengrass," Theo replied, overcome with emotion, though by then Hermione had remembered her own ravenous hunger, opting for a piece of toast in lieu of conversation.

Once or twice, Draco joined them in the dining hall (he was on the phone with his grandfather's people at the palace whenever he wasn't curled around his notes, frowning at them and sitting so still in thought Hermione had to flick him once or twice an hour to make sure he hadn't spontaneously turned to stone) and though Hermione noted people were starting to eye her more suspiciously in the halls than they had before, he didn't seem to take issue with the attention. He usually took the seat beside her without comment, and though they made no public contact, she remained comfortably soothed by his presence.

They never discussed her impending departure. Hermione understood that was mostly a favor to her, but as the days went by and exams gradually ended, she realized she'd let weeks pass without a single mention of what would happen to them once she was gone. It wasn't until their final night together (featuring the addition of Harry's presence on a visit from London) that it even hit her she was leaving.

"To the new Tracey Davis!" Blaise had offered on her behalf, lofting his glass in the air and toasting Hermione from his seat at the end of the table. "May the rest of her life be the best of her life—which seems highly unlikely," he conceded with a sigh, "seeing as she won't be having us in it."

"Bleak, Blaise," Pansy remarked, making a face of pursed disapproval. "You're not going to get sentimental on us, are you?"

From Harry, doubtfully: "I'm sorry, in what world was that sentimental?"

From Pansy: "Hush. Give her the thing, Daphne."

Hermione, turning to Daphne with surprise: "What thing?"

Daphne, sheepishly: "Oh, just a small thing. Theo has it."

Theo, grandly turning to something beside him: "From all of us, for our resident colonist: a patent of nobility, along with her own official seal."

(It was an elaborate scroll of parchment that had obviously been hand drawn by Daphne, and the seal featured California poppies and a stylized lioness. The detail to which Hermione's fake family tree had been constructed beneath it—including 'Creepy Uncle Blaise' and 'Family Patriarch Pansy'—bore obvious traces of signature Theo Nott.)

From Blaise, before Hermione could respond: "Don't forget the other thing!"

Harry, with a laugh: "Ah yes, the more important thing—"

Theo, grandly presenting it to Hermione: "Right—and the other thing, of course."

(This one was a certificate that had clearly been scribbled with colored Sharpie by someone who could have only been Blaise, placed in an opulent brass frame and featuring the words 'HONORARY POINTS WINNER.')

Blaise: "It can only be honorary, of course, because by virtue of leaving, you lose three hundred thousand points."

From Hermione, weakly: "Oh, is that all?"

Pansy, sniffing affectedly: "You should know, Hermione, it's quite a humiliating loss. The most of any player, I believe. You should be ashamed."

Harry, with a low tsk of disapproval: "It's even worse than the time I borrowed Blaise's favorite dress socks without asking. What was that, five hundred points?"

From Blaise: "TEN POINTS GONE FOR REMINDING ME! The indecency—nay, the audacity—"

Harry, with a frown: "Hm. A slight miscalculation on my part for bringing it up. Though, you're welcome for the distraction."

Blaise, bellowing into his Guiness: "NONE TAKEN!"

From Hermione, with a laughing sigh: "Well, I'm very sorry to have let you down, Blaise. Please know that this crippling point loss will haunt me for centuries."

Pansy, tartly: "Well, it's no less than you deserve for leaving."

Harry, patting Pansy's head: "Look at that, Hermione. Pansy's getting emotional."

From Pansy, stiffly: "I've never been emotional in my life, Henry James, and I'm certainly not going to start now."

From Blaise: "Now look what you've done! She's practically in tears!"

From Theo, nudging Daphne: "You're awfully quiet, Greengrass."

Daphne, with a sigh: "Oh, it's only because I might weep. It's nothing, I'm sure."

Hermione, to Draco: "You're quiet too, actually."

Draco, placing a hand discreetly on her knee: "I'll say my goodbyes later. Though, I should warn you now, I'm afraid I don't have anything as meaningful as Blaise's symbolic prize to offer you."

Blaise, loudly: "Don't be silly, Draco, you can give her your royal—"

From Pansy, with a groan: "Do not—"

Blaise: "—postage stamps."

Harry, chuckling: "An excellent plot twist."

From Hermione, with an eye roll: "Well, listen. I just wanted to thank you all for an amazing few months. I'm going to miss all of you, and—"

She broke off, promptly finding herself on the brink of tears. She wished she could blame it on the wine, but that seemed highly unlikely. Instead, as she looked at the faces around the table, she had the very distinct feeling she was about to say goodbye to the very best friends she'd ever had, and she wondered again at how quickly she'd come to consider them like family.

"Please," Pansy sighed from across the table, "try to hold it together, Hermione—"

"I will. I am." Hermione sniffled slightly, raising her glass and rising to her feet. "Okay, look, um. A toast." She lofted her glass in the air, waiting until the others had done the same. "If it's possible to be soulmates with an entire group of people, then… I don't know. I hope you guys are my soulmates. And I don't know, maybe we'll meet again or something—"

Blaise, wiping a tear: "'Maybe we'll meet again or something,' beautiful—"

Hermione, with a choked-back sob: "—but even if we don't, I just… I want you guys to know that you're all the very best people in the universe. Even you, Pansy."

Harry, dotingly: "Oh, Pans, don't cry."

Pansy, who was resolutely hiding her face: "For heaven's sake, Harry, I'm fine, shut up before I murder you—"

From Draco, rising to his feet beside Hermione: "And, likewise—to you, Hermione. For bringing a little something to each of our lives that can never be replaced."

He was smiling at her, his fingers tight around his glass. His signet ring was, of course, on his left hand rather than his right, and she tightened her own hand, letting her snake ring flash in the dim light that shone down through the Hog's Head.

"We'll miss you," Draco promised her, "all of us." Hermione swallowed with difficulty, struggling to contain herself, and Draco lifted his glass. "To Hermione."

"To Hermione," the others called in reply, Daphne wiping quietly at her eyes, and in that moment, Hermione felt certain she would never feel more… full. Of affection, or emotion, or satisfaction, or… Whatever it was, she was full of it. She was overflowing. She had more than she could carry, and by the time they'd all shuffled back to the castle that night, the others dutifully turning a blind eye as she and Draco slipped into his room, Hermione wasn't sure she was going to be able to tear herself away without leaving a gaping piece of herself behind.

"I have my own gift for you," Draco told her, taking her hand and leading her to his desk, where he slid open the top drawer and pulled out a small box. "I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" she echoed in dismay, reaching for the box. "Gimme."

He chuckled, holding it out for her as she carefully peeled the wrapping paper from around a small jewelry box. "It's not what you think," he warned hurriedly when her eyes widened, laughing to himself. "It's just… open it."

She did. It was…

She blinked. "Is this another snake ring?" she asked, doubtfully eyeing the object in the box, and Draco laughed.

"I noticed the costume one was turning your finger green," he said, sliding it off to replace it with the one he'd given her. "This one is gold. Which, hopefully you don't mind the little bit of extravagance," he demurred, carefully slipping it onto her finger, "but all things considered, it was really a matter of concern for your health."

"Well, excess or death, as Blaise would say," Hermione murmured, eyeing the flash of gold on her finger, and Draco's hand tightened in hers.

"That," he agreed, "and also, because the thought of you not wearing it…"

He trailed off, his grey gaze falling on hers with a restrained glimpse of sadness.

"I guess I'd just like to think you'll still wear it, at least from time to time," he eventually managed. "And maybe when you do… I don't know." He fidgeted slightly, shifting his feet. "I hoped you'd think of me."

Abruptly, Hermione's already-overfilled heart erupted in a monstrous wave of anguish, flooding her senses. "Draco," she burst with dismay, pulling him into her arms and brusquely kissing his cheek. "How could I ever not think of you?"

His arms came around her slowly. "I just," he began, and then stopped. "No. I'm sorry. I told myself I wouldn't say anything, but—"

"I can't stay," Hermione said again, disentangling only far enough to look at him. "I have a life back home. And a plan. And a future." She paused. "I can't put the rest of my life on hold, Draco," she reminded him gently, "no matter what I feel about you."

He slid her hand from around his neck, pressing his lips to the inside of her wrist in solemn contemplation. "And what is it you feel, exactly?"

She hesitated. "A lot of things. Big things." She squeezed her eyes shut, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "I feel all the things for you, Prince Draco of Wales, and maybe in another life—"

She broke off, unable to finish the sentence.

Maybe in another life, where you were just a boy and I was just a girl, you might have been it for me. You might have been everything. If you were the kind of prince who lived in storybooks, in fairy tales, then maybe you might have been my happy ending.

He nodded slowly, swallowing hard.

"I know," he eventually managed. "I understand."

"I'm American," she reminded him, reciting the many things she'd told herself countless times over every time she'd entertained the thought of staying. "I'm an American, I'm just… a hundred things you could never be with. Sorry, I'm poor," she joked, but he didn't laugh; only tightened his arms around her. "It just wouldn't work, Draco. No matter how much we wanted it to."

"Can we at least," he began, pained, and then grimaced. "Sorry," he exhaled. "I shouldn't, I know, but I'm in the bargaining stage of grief."

"By all means," Hermione assured him. "Bargain away. What are you offering?"

"Can we just keep talking?" he asked tentatively. "Can we let this fade because of something stupid, like distance, instead of just… cutting it off while it's still good?"

She paused, considering it.

"Okay," she said. "Sure, of course."

Even then, she was sure it was a lie. She doubted she'd be able to hang up the phone with him if she picked it up. If he called—if he told her he missed her—she'd probably put herself, her wild hair, and her stupid, stupid heart directly on a plane and fly right back to him, and she knew better than that.

He knew better, too. She could see it on his face. He accepted the lie for what it was, but both of them knew better.

He tilted her chin up then, kissing her for the hundredth time, and Hermione lamented that she would never know what it was to know a thousand others just like it. Someday, "God Save the King" would play during the Olympics or something and she would watch it on television and know the song was because sixty-five million other people loved him, not just her. And she reminded herself now that's why she couldn't have him. Because he was theirs, and therefore, he couldn't be hers.

Immediately, she felt tears burn at the back of her eyes, and she kissed him back, roughly, before shoving him back on his bed, knowing they'd be tasting the salted evidence of heartache on both their lips if she didn't rapidly change course. She fumbled with his shirt, tugging it over his head, and when she paused, digging her nails painfully into his chest, he took hold of her face with both hands.

"I'm not going to say it," he told her, grey eyes meeting hers. "But you should know it anyway."

She nodded, taking a ragged breath.

"I know," she replied, voice gruff and halted, and he dragged her lips down to his, kissing her with an uncharacteristic roughness before pulling her shirt over her head, letting it fall to the floor.

In retrospect, she probably already knew it wouldn't be the most mind-blowing sex she'd ever had, or would ever have. The best sex was always more spontaneous than this; always the sort of thing that jolted her heart into a false start, sending it leaping off and away from her so that every sensation was a rigorous foray into new territory. In her experience, good sex was exploration. Discovery. A venture into something vast. The best sex was a subversion of romance; it was unplanned, undaunted, unpressured. This, though, was sex in its rawest, purest form, because it was honest. Because there was pressure. Because it would be for the last time.

And because she couldn't say how she felt in words, she had to spell it out for him in motions, with the places she touched. Here, with my lips behind your ear, because you listen. Here, with my fingertips carved into your spine, because of how deeply I admire your certainty. Here, with my hand pressed to your chest, because your heart beats against it. Because of your heart, and mine.

It wasn't the most inventive sex she'd ever had. They did it in one position, at pretty much a constant speed, because as physical as the expression was, it was still mostly about something else. Because it was goodbye; because her heart would inevitably miss being close to his. Because her mind would run straight for thoughts of him every time she saw her gold ring flash in the dark. And true, he was always good—he knew her pressures and angles and met them without hesitation, the two of them far past being strangers—but she wouldn't remember the orgasm she had. She wouldn't daydream about how his body looked from the light of his desk lamp. As good as the sex was, she wouldn't lust over the occasion. But she would always remember the way his eyes never left hers, and the shape of his mouth when he said, Hermione.

Hermione, you have no idea—

You can't possibly know how much I'm going to miss you.

And when it was over, because she'd already said everything she needed to, Hermione slipped out of his bed after he fell asleep, sliding out from under his arm and tiptoeing carefully into the hall, leaving him behind.

When Hermione got to her room, Daphne was curled up on her bed beside Theo, the two of them sitting in silence. He was cross-legged, leaning his head back against the wall, and Daphne's legs were pulled into her chest, her gaze fixed on Hermione's suitcases.

At Hermione's entry, Theo rose to his feet, nodding to her.

"I'll have the car ready to go at ten, okay?" he said, having already agreed to be the one to take her to the airport. Hermione had felt confident Theo was the only one who'd make it easy; Daphne would cry, Draco would be too difficult, Blaise didn't know how to drive, and Pansy… well, maybe Pansy would have been a better choice, only Hermione wasn't in the habit of asking Pansy for favors. She figured Theo would make the goodbye the easiest, at the very least.

She nodded. "Thanks, Theo."

He gave her a quick smile, patting her shoulder, and then slipped into the corridor, shutting the door behind him.

Hermione replaced him in the spot beside Daphne, resting her head on Daphne's shoulder.

"You don't have to leave," Daphne said, her voice a little hollow, and Hermione sighed.

"I told you, I can't just stay here for Draco—"

"Then don't." Daphne's voice was rough around the edges. "This is a pretty good school, Hermione, in case you haven't noticed. You don't have to stay because of him."

"I know," Hermione said tentatively, "but then what? I'd still have to go to an American law school, so it's not like it does me any good to have a degree from a British university—"

"Do you even want to be a lawyer?" Daphne interrupted, turning to look at her. "You've never mentioned any interest in it. I didn't even know you were pre-law until your mother mentioned it."

"Of course I do," Hermione said, frowning. "And hey, you can't really talk, can you?" she prompted, arching a brow. "I mean… be honest, Daph. You're basically just pretending to study history while you spend all your time on your art classes."

Daphne pulled away, bristling. "So?"

"So it's just… it's not like you can relate," Hermione reminded her, perhaps a little too harshly. "And I'm not like you, okay? I don't just have some underground vault of money I'll have access to someday, I actually have to get a job, and—"

"Excuse me?" Daphne cut in, frowning. "So now I can't understand what you're going through because I'm rich? Is that it?"

"Well, I'm just saying," Hermione insisted, turning to face her, "you act like you can't understand why I have to follow a plan for my life, but you're following one too, aren't you? The only reason you're not doing what you love is because your parents disapprove."

"Okay, and the only reason you're not staying is… what, exactly?" Daphne demanded. "Nobody's making you do anything. You're just up on some high horse about how you won't make decisions based on a boy, but it's not like your plan is any better," she insisted. "Do you even really want it?"

"Hey," Hermione said, stung. "I work really hard, Daphne—"

"Yes, but why?" Daphne pressed. "You're just… you're just going through the motions, Hermione. You said yourself you don't have any friends at Stanford," she added brusquely, "so what exactly are you going back to?"

"There's more to life than shopping trips and brunch," Hermione snapped, and Daphne recoiled, obviously insulted. "Sorry, Daph, I didn't mean—"

"No, go on," Daphne said flatly. "Tell me more about how meaningless my life is, Hermione. Please, by all means, continue."

It was late, Hermione reminded herself.

It was late, she was sad. They'd been drinking, they shouldn't have been arguing, but—

"Why do you need me to stay so badly, anyway?" Hermione said, her voice definitely too harsh that time. "Is it just because you don't want to have to start over? Because without me, you don't have a built-in person to be your friend?"

Daphne balked, gaping at her. "Is that honestly what you think?"

"You're afraid of change, Daphne," Hermione shot back, suddenly furious. "You're terrified. It's why you won't admit you have feelings for Theo—"

"Leave him out of this," Daphne warned sharply, her beautiful face abruptly going cold, but Hermione had already started, and it was impossible to stop.

"It's obvious, it's so obvious to everyone—you're in love with him!" Hermione snapped, and Daphne pulled away, forcefully putting distance between them. "But you can't tell him because you're too afraid. And this isn't even about me!" she said, realizing she'd risen in volume but somehow unable to prevent herself from half-shouting it in Daphne's face. "You don't want me to leave because it means you'll be alone, right?" At that, Daphne flinched. "This isn't about me, or my life, or my choices—you just don't want to have to train someone new to be your best friend, but it's either that or be alone. Right, Daphne?"

"And what about you, then?" Daphne said through her teeth. "What are you going to do, Hermione? Go back and keep working at some career you don't even care about just to prove a point to yourself?"

"So what if I'm proving a point?" Hermione flung at her. "At least I'm doing something, not just coasting by and hoping nothing ever changes!"

The moment she said it, she knew she'd gone too far.

Miles too far.

Had she even meant any of it?

No, she knew with a pang, but by then, it was too late.

"Well, I hope you and your convictions are very happy together, then," Daphne said, rising to her feet and struggling to find her shoes. "Just… just go, Hermione," she said, swiping blindly at her eyes, and Hermione grimaced, reaching for her as Daphne stumbled out of reach. "Just—"

Daphne paused, straightening, and all at once, Hermione saw just how badly she'd hurt her, noting Daphne's inability to meet her eye.

"I guess I just thought you'd wake up one day and realize there was more for you here than just Draco," Daphne said quietly. "I guess I never figured out he was the only one that mattered all along."

Hermione winced, stung. "Daphne, that's not—"

"No, don't. It's fine." Daphne turned without another word, letting the door slam behind her.

Hermione bent her head, feeling tears prick sharply behind her eyes, and as she sat there, slowly going numb, she heard the sound of the door opening.

After a few quiet strides, Daphne's shoes materialized directly beneath Hermione's lowered gaze.

"I'm furious, and I'm hurt," Daphne said, voice unsteady, "but I'll hate myself forever if I leave things like that, so. Goodbye, Hermione. I'm sorry."

She kissed the top of Hermione's head roughly and then spun, leaving through the door once more, and Hermione curled up on Daphne's duvet, staring at her suitcases before finally letting herself start to cry.

The next morning Theo was at her door at ten, as promised, though nobody was with him. They walked through the common room and out of the castle without running into anyone else, in fact, though Hermione spent the entire time rigid with vigilance, waiting for Daphne to appear. Or Draco, maybe with some joke about helping her with her suitcases, since that's how they'd met. She waited for someone, anyone, to magically appear and tell her she was being a bloody idiot—but nobody did. If she'd been waiting for a sign, she thought, that was it. That was enough.

Eventually, Hermione loaded her bags into the car and slid formlessly into the passenger seat, staring out the window.

Theo didn't say much. He drove in silence while Hermione watched the receding shape of the castle disappear into the woods behind them. In fact, Theo only said one thing, really.

"You were a little hard on her."

Hermione hid a grimace. "I know. I feel terrible."

Theo shrugged. "I think she understands."

Hermione waited a moment before exhaling heavily, turning towards him. "You should really tell her how you feel, you know."

"Ha. Yeah." Theo spared a glance at her. "Maybe."

"I'm serious, Theo—"

"Yeah—hey. Can I say one more thing?" Theo interrupted, tapping the steering wheel with his right hand.

Hermione grimaced. "You're not really known for not saying things," she reminded him, and he chuckled in agreement.

"True. But look," he said, "I just wanted to tell you that you were right—I didn't need or want to go to Hogwarts." He glanced briefly at her. "I have no interest in school or my degree. I went so I could keep an eye on Draco. But if I'd never gone," he said slowly, glancing in the rearview mirror, "I would never have met Daphne. Or you. And now, as a result, my life is different, so, you know." He shrugged. "Maybe sometimes you just have to go with it."

"Yeah," Hermione sighed, "I know, but—"

"Don't," Theo said, shaking his head. "It's just something to think about."

When they got to the airport, he gave her a hug. Kissed her cheek, told her not to be a stranger, gave her a broad grin. She told him he was the best of the Bad Lads, blinking back another layer of fresh tears, and in reply, he gave her an amiable shrug.

"Don't tell Rita Skeeter," were Theo Nott's last words to her, and then he got in the car, and Hermione turned to the airport, angling herself towards her gate.

That afternoon, Hermione Granger got on an airplane bound for San Francisco International Airport, listened to the safety procedures, put her tray table in the upright and locked position, and buckled her seatbelt. Astoundingly, nobody stopped her. No divine hand of fortune stepped in. Nothing changed her mind.

The plane took off, and then it landed, and as quickly as her semester at Hogwarts had begun, Hermione Granger had left everything behind.

Her mother knew better than to interrupt her period of mourning, which was something Hermione figured she'd have to thank her for later. She mostly stayed in bed alone, watching sappy movies on her laptop and hiding her cell phone from herself, lest she be tempted to contact someone. They seemed to be respecting her unspoken wish for distance, though on Christmas morning, Hermione woke up to two emails.

One from Pansy: Do they celebrate Christmas there or is it, as I suspect, a country of godless heathens? Hopefully your time here has bettered you somewhat. I certainly tried my best. In any case, happy Christmas, Hermione. Thank you for leaving me the tea tree oil. Also, please remember that nail-biting is a detestable habit. Goodbye.

One from Draco: I rewrote this at least twenty times. Every attempt was some variety of the same thing, though, so figured I should just say the only important thing, which was this: I miss you.

She slid lower in the covers, pulling them over her head and trying very hard to ignore everything outside her fortress of jersey cotton.

No such luck. At approximately one in the afternoon, she heard a knock at her door.

"Hey, sweet pea," her father said gently, poking his head in. "You want to get dressed sometime soon? I don't love the trip to your grandmother's house either," David joked, "but, you know. Once a year, right?"

"Do I have to?" Hermione sniffled from beneath the cover.

"Er. Well." David paused. "Hold on. Let me get your mother."

"Okay," Hermione mumbled, and within fifteen minutes, Helen was at the door.

"Listen, sweetie, I was all set with my pep talk, but it turns out we've been hijacked," Helen said. "You have a visitor."

Hermione groaned. "Is it Grandma? Because I really don't want to—"

"No, not quite," came a cheery voice, and Hermione bolted upright, immediately forgetting the pile of tissues that had become part her of latest habitat (and, worse, the state of her unwashed hair) to find that Prince Harry himself was lounging spiritedly in the threshold of her bedroom. "I take it as a compliment, though, as I like to think I've got a delightfully granny-ish quality to me. Lovely home, by the way," he remarked to Helen, whose cheeks flushed pink.

"Exactly how many princes did my daughter pick up over there?" Helen asked him.

"Eh," Harry said. "I'm really more of a rogue."

"Right, of course," Helen said, glancing between a still-gaping Hermione and a characteristically nonchalant Harry before taking a tentative step back. "Well, if you're not here to, um—"

"No, no," Harry assured her. "Nothing untoward. Just delivering a message, as it were."

"Ah. Well, I'll leave you to it, then," Helen said, taking a few steps in retreat before muttering, "David, honestly, calm down, you act like we've never hosted royalty before—" and nudging her husband sharply, dragging him down the stairs.

In Helen's absence, Harry wandered inside the room, looking around at Hermione's bedroom decor. "Amélie," he noted, pointing to the poster. "An excellent film."

"Thanks," Hermione said warily, frowning at him. "Did you genuinely fly here from London to deliver a message?"

"Yes," Harry said, falling onto the bed beside her. "Do you doubt that I would?"

Hermione considered it. "No, actually." She sighed, then frowned suspiciously at him. "You're not here to proposition me romantically, are you?"

He arched a brow. "My, my. Someone's got quite an ego," he noted, and Hermione felt her cheeks flush, immediately embarrassed.

"Sorry, I just meant—"

"No, I'm teasing. I told you, you chose Draco," he reminded her, "and thus, I have rescinded my place in the running. Although, if you've changed your mind…?" he prompted, and when she shook her head, he grinned. "Perfect. Ideal, actually, because I'm not, in fact, here for that, and now I don't have to worry about my precious morals being tested. You do look ravishing, though," he told her, licking his thumb and blithely removing what she suspected might have been chocolate from her cheek.

Hermione nudged him away, making a face. "What are you doing here, then?"

Harry leaned back with a sigh, resting his head against the wall before turning to face her.

"Well," he said. "For starters, Draco told me what happened."

She blinked. "That we broke up, you mean?"

"Well, yeah. That," Harry permitted, "and that you fought with Daphne."

Hermione grimaced, but said nothing.

"Look," Harry said, "if Draco could be here, he absolutely would be. He was devastated when you left. Even less fun than usual. Moping in every room, which is saying more than you'd think." He paused, glancing at her, but she couldn't quite bring herself to laugh. "He can't be here, obviously, so I'm here. To tell you what he would be telling you. Though, try not to get confused," he added in warning, "because I know I'm much more handsome, but anyway—imagine I'm Draco, and I'm trying to tell you something he can't, which is: you never should have left."

Hermione froze, swallowing hard. "Harry, it's not that simple."

"Actually," Harry corrected her, "what it isn't is complicated. And listen, I get why you left," he told her, holding up a finger as she opened her mouth, "just like I understand why Draco, being the dutiful prince that he is, couldn't ask you to stay. But, seeing as I'm the reckless one," Harry reminded her, "I feel no shame in being the one to relay the message, and it is this."

He sat up straighter, taking hold of her shoulders.

"You're being stupid," he said.

"What?" she asked, taken aback.

"I said you're being totally stupid," he repeated, and she groaned.

"I heard you—"

"You never wanted to leave," Harry said flatly. "You wanted to prove something about your… I don't know. Your independence, I suppose, which is just like an American—no, don't interrupt, it's my turn to speak—or you wanted to stick with your goals, or something equally valid and totally worthy, but whatever. It's dumb." She blinked. "Really, it's absolutely the dumbest. You know you want to stay."

She blinked. "But—"

"But what?" Harry prompted, looking firmly like a prince of the realm for the first time in Hermione's memory. "Is being a lawyer really your dream, Hermione Granger?"

Hermione hesitated, then finally confessed the truth. "No, but—"

"Is there any reason why you couldn't have a perfectly good career if you spent a year at Hogwarts rather than Stanford?"

"Maybe not, but Harry—"

"In my experience, life isn't something you plan," Harry told her. "As far as I can tell, life is something that happens to you in spite of your plans."

"That's—" Hermione paused, blinking. "Harry, that's—"

"Wise, I know," he agreed, straightening. "Blaise isn't here, so I'm awarding myself fifteen points."

"But—"

"When you look back on your life, Hermione Granger," Harry said, reaching over her to pick up the patent of nobility she'd left sitting on her nightstand (the only thing she'd bothered to unpack) before tapping her nose with the scroll, "what will be the things you chose, and what will be the things that really mattered?"

A good point.

And from Harry, at that.

After a moment of hesitation (mixed, as it was, with disbelief), Hermione took the scroll from him, unrolling it to trace her fingers over the family tree drawn inside it for the hundredth time.

"So, wait a second," she said. "What was the message again?"

"Well, more of a task, really," Harry said. "To bring you home or die trying."

She smiled faintly. "And who sent this message, again?"

"Hm? Oh, me," Harry said, shrugging. "But Draco and his unbearable melancholy were pretty compelling, so… the details are fuzzy, really."

"Ah." Hermione looked up from the scroll slowly, thinking. "How'd you get here?"

"Broomstick." At Hermione's skeptical glance, he laughed. "Fine. So I have a plane. Sorry if you find that environmentally unsound, but—"

"No, I just—I have someone I need to see as soon as possible," Hermione said, relieved to finally be sure of something. "Do you think you could take me to London, like… right now?"

Harry smiled broadly. "Nothing would make me happier," he assured her, patting the top of her head. "Provided you change your clothes before we leave."

Luckily for Hermione, Helen and David were more than willing to make their apologies to her grandmother in favor of a trip to England, and a reasonable amount of time later, she was finally able to pay a very important visit, her parents remaining patiently in the car. Hermione, meanwhile, rapped on the front door, waiting patiently and shivering in the wintry air as a man dressed in a black suit materialized in the doorway.

"Yes?" asked what she could only assume was a butler of some sort.

"Um, hi," Hermione said. "I'm looking for—"

"Hermione?" came from behind the man, a familiar voice pairing with an unmistakable set of footsteps to come to a sudden stop. "What are you doing here? Sorry, Paul, I can take it from here—"

"Yes, Lady Daphne," said what was apparently a butler named Paul as Daphne beckoned Hermione inside the house.

"Come in, sorry, I wasn't…" Daphne trailed off, blinking with hesitant confusion. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Yeah, I was just, um." Hermione swallowed heavily. "Look, Daphne, I—"

"Daph, what are you—oh," came another voice. "You."

Astoria Greengrass had paused in the foyer of what Hermione was gradually realizing was a truly enormous house, staring suspiciously down at her from the top of a set of sloping stairs.

"What are you doing here?" called Astoria, her voice more bored than anything else, and Hermione sighed.

"Well, I'm just—honestly, I just needed to apologize," Hermione said, turning to Daphne.

"Oh," Astoria said. "Well, apology accepted."

"Not to you," Daphne snapped over her shoulder, hastily turning to shoo her sister away. "Go finish getting dressed."

"Fine, fine," Astoria muttered, wandering back from the stairs as Daphne turned back to Hermione with a sigh.

"Sorry, what were you—"

"I was apologizing," Hermione said firmly. "I said a lot of unfair things that I didn't even mean, but I wanted to tell you that I have a very important confession you need to hear." She took a deep breath, steadying herself, before digging the scroll out of her bag and unrolling it to reveal precisely what she'd been looking at for the past week.

A line between her name and Daphne's.

Sisters.

"According to this very legitimate patent of nobility, you're my sister," Hermione said, pointing to the family tree Daphne had drawn, "so it's your job to forgive me when I say stupid things. Right?" she prompted. "I'm inexperienced with siblings, but I'm pretty sure that's a rule."

"Ah," Daphne said, half-smiling. "I see."

"Yes," Hermione continued curtly. "See, the thing is, I knew I couldn't base all my life decisions on a boy. Or a relationship. But, I realized," she went on, watching Daphne's expression soften guardedly, "I could stay, you know, if my sister asked me to. You know," she said again, feeling immensely awkward. "Because… family and all that."

Daphne's mouth quirked at the corners. "Interesting."

"Well, right. Because the truth is, Daphne, you're the best friend I've ever had," Hermione said honestly, confessing it with a sigh. "And sure, maybe it'll be more of a challenge to study law from here, but it's not impossible, right? And besides, I can figure that out at the end of the year."

Daphne's smile broadened. "True. But you do realize I have a roommate," she cautioned. "Tracey Davis has already staked her claim, I'm afraid."

"Well, nobody likes the dorms," Hermione reminded her, shrugging. "In fact, I called Pansy on my way over and she told me she could probably find a suitable flat in Hogsmeade, provided I promised not to turn it into… well, I believe her words were 'a cesspool of inadequacy' or something along those lines—"

"Ah." By then, Daphne's smile was radiant. "Well, are you sure about this, then?"

"Oh, I'm so sure," Hermione promised, rolling the scroll back up and tucking it into her purse. "So," she said after a moment, aiming a wistfully lopsided attempt at a smile towards Daphne. "Do you think you can forgive me?"

To that, Daphne pulled Hermione into her arms, giving her a squeeze.

"Welcome home," she said warmly, and Hermione hugged her back with relief, absolutely certain she'd made the right choice.

Later that night, Hermione got a phone call.

"Hello?"

"Hermione Granger? Draco Wales."

She smiled, removing the phone from her ear to gesture to her mother from across the living room of the hotel suite.

"I'm just going to take this in my room," she mouthed, pointing to the phone, and Helen nodded, waving her away as she and David continued chatting with Daphne, who was cheerfully showing off her art in person.

"Hey," Hermione said once she'd shut the door behind her.

"Hi," Draco replied, his smile audible through the phone. "I take it Harry's gotten you and your parents settled, then?"

"Yes, we just arrived at the hotel after dinner. Thank him for me, would you? The room is absolutely beautiful."

"Thank him yourself. How about a tour of Buckingham Palace tomorrow? I can have him meet you and bring you over."

"Really?"

"Of course. I can't wait to meet Helen and David in person. Though, don't worry," Draco assured her, "I'll be sure to brush thoroughly beforehand. Wouldn't want to embarrass you."

"I—" Hermione stopped, surprised. "You want to meet my parents?"

"Of course," Draco replied. "Unless… oh no," he lamented facetiously. "Did you not realize that you coming back here would mean I'd be doing everything in my power to sweep you off your feet again?"

"Again?" Hermione echoed.

"Naturally. You didn't think I'd just assume, did you? No, no," he said, tutting quietly. "This will be quite a long process of earning you twice over, I'm afraid."

"Does this mean I have to seduce you all over again?" Hermione asked, dismayed.

"Excuse me, seduce me? Miss Granger, I believe I was responsible for the majority of the seduction."

She stifled a laugh, shaking her head. "Arguable. But then," she attempted, and paused. "Does that mean—?"

"…that I still want to be with you? Oddly, Hermione, a week apart did very little to change my mind."

She bit her lip, hoping not to embarrass herself.

"That's cool," she eventually said, and he laughed.

"Well, I won't keep you. Enjoy your night with your parents and Daphne. Call me in the morning?"

"Yes," she said. "Yes, definitely."

"Good, good, excellent. Oh, and Hermione?"

"Yes?"

She heard the sound of him hesitating.

"I'm not going to say it yet," he said. "Not on the phone, obviously. That would be so impersonal. Terrible, really."

She inhaled, half-holding her breath.

"Right. Of course not. But me too," she said, letting it out. "Me, too."

"Good." A little pause. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight," she said, and hung up the phone, smiling vacantly into nothing.

It was, without a doubt, the best Christmas ever.

I remember thinking it was going to be a pain to re-enroll at Hogwarts at the last second, but of course, it wasn't. I probably should have known then just how powerful the monarchy was on a scale of how little effort the logistical arrangements were that second term compared with the drudgery when I'd first applied. Still, at the time, it was hard to be anything but blissfully happy. My parents and I had an amazing trip in London, and by the time they saw me off to Hogwarts, I was more sure than ever I'd made the right choice to stay.

It didn't occur to me until much later that afterwards, some people (read: Rita Skeeter) would see all my subsequent decisions as revolving around the central nexus of Draco himself. Eventually, I would be plastered all over the newspapers and magazines as the desperate American who gave everything up for love—even when that wasn't precisely true.

But, then again, it's really quite difficult to see the consequences of any decision while you're still in the middle of it. No one knows that better than me.

a/n: Remember I said I had a secret thing? It is now a public thing! You can find my little youtube venture, Olivie Blake is Not Writing, on, well… youtube. And on my tumblr. If you have any questions or topics for discussion, just ask! And also, still very happy you're here. This one maybe more angsty than fun… but still fun in the grander scheme, I hope.